


The Gig

by urielsgate



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Humor, Mild Language, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27298195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urielsgate/pseuds/urielsgate
Summary: A fifteen years old fresh gold medal winner Yuri Plisetsky is nowhere to be found and an understandably exasperated Yakov Feltsman is left dealing with one of the Great Lilia Baranovskaya’s legendary nervous collapse.
Relationships: Otabek Altin & Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29
Collections: Otayuri Week 2020





	The Gig

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitsuneart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsuneart/gifts).



> Fifth short story written for the otayuriweek2020
> 
> Day 5, Prompt: Tropes
> 
> Dedicated and gifted to Agape (kitsuneart) because we share this massive and quite irrevocable metalheads Otayuri headcanon and we like it, okay? XD

The Gig

Yakov Feltsman has been training hordes of young athletes for the past twenty years or so and has witnessed some pretty wild shit both on and off the ice rink from day one. He’s seen kids in sparkly and stupidly expensive costumes at their thirtieth professional competition throwing up all over the judges, fellow coaches drinking themselves into a stupor at almost every banquet at the end of the season and acting like idiots, skaters sneaking out of their opponents’ hotel rooms in the morning plus all the predictable nonsense one has to put up with when working with teenagers.

He still remembers the time when a still long-haired Vitya had thrown a memorable tantrum during a press conference because one of the journalists had mispronounced the name of his dog. And how could he ever forget Georgi’s gender identity crisis right before his senior debut. In other words nothing up in heaven or down on earth will ever revoke this one sacrosanct truth in his mind: The Russian Federation should grant him a fucking pay raise or just let him retire to the post-Soviet ugliness of his hometown and give him a much needed break. Instead, for the pittance they throw at him at end of each month, at seventy years old the poor man still has to drag his old aching bones all over the planet and deal with a team of horrid brats. Yakov Feltsman pensively rubs his bald spot and then quickly covers it under his felt hat as soon as he spots Lilia emerging through the sliding door of the hotel lift.

-Well?- The woman demands as soon as he acknowledges her divine presence gracing the foyer.

Yakov shrugs and pushes his swollen hands deep into the pockets of the trench coat he’s been wearing for the past thirty years or so. –Mila says she doesn’t know a thing-

-Ha! The little perjurer!- The great Lilia Baranovskaya denounces in a melodramatic high-pitched shrill before arching a thin sinister brow and proceeding to scan her ex-husband with algid contempt. –You were scratching your head again, weren’t you!-

-Goddamnit, Lilia, I was not!-

-Don’t you dare use this sort of language in my presence, Yakov Ibrahimovich Feltsman!-

The man groans exasperated and, visibly fed up with the whole situation, he decides to fish out his phone and give the damned thing another go.

-As if!- Lilia snorts. –You know that imp never even bothers to pick up your calls-

Yakov rants under his heavy breath as he struggles to scroll through the list of his contacts. Damned arthritis. Damned over apprehensive ballet teachers. And most importantly damned bloody teenage Muscovites.

-Perhaps we should call his grandfather…- Lilia starts wringing her bony hands and Yakov knows all to well that’s hardly ever a good sign. –We should go to the police… Good heavens, he’s only fifteen!-

Here we go again, the man sighs and thinks that a prima ballerina’s nervous breakdown is hardly the last headache he needs right now.

-Look, Lilia…I’m sure he’s fine. For Christ’s sake, let him have some fun, after all he’s just a kid…-

And before Lilia can rebuke him once again for the crudeness of his intolerable swearing as well as dissent on the fact that Yuri should be entitled to having a life (indeed on her dead body!), Yakov’s eyes suddenly grow as huge as two industrial parabolic dishes and, switching from apathy to an explosion of pure wrath at the speed of light, he starts snarling like a rabid dog at his phone.

–Yuri? Yuri! Can you hear me?! Damn it Yuri, where the hell are you?!!-

A totally unconcerned Yuri Plisetsky yawns on the other side of the line.

-Quit the yapping, Yakov. I’m fine-

Yakov Feltsman can feel his stiff lower lip quivering with both fury and relief at the sound of his gold medal winning pupil’s voice. –Do you have the slightest idea of what time it is?!-

-Yes, I just checked. It’s “stop being a jerk” o’clock- Yuri catches the frown across Otabek’s face and decides to tone it down a bit. –Look, I’m five minutes away from the hotel door, okay?-

Before Yakov Feltsman can shoot back with a “five minutes away my hat, you should have been in bed two hours ago!” Yuri has already cut their conversation off and has left him dealing with Lilia’s reproach and petulant questioning.

-I thought you said you had your coach’s permission-

Yuri turns to look at Otabek and knows he’s now in trouble. It’s not the first time he and the Kazakh skater have taken off together after an official practice or a competition, but it certainly is the first time he sneaks out of a hotel after dinner asking Mila to cover his ass.

The Russian kid grins at the smudged rubber stamp outline on his left hand and can still feel his ears ringing with the infernal pandemonium he’s been head banging to at the super cool underground club Otabek has taken him to the moment he’s found out, figure skating self-immolation aside, they had something else in common.

Since he’s never had nor in fact needed any, Yuri doesn’t know what it feels like to have a friend. As he’s walking back home with Otabek at his side however he can guess that somehow losing your voice together at a clandestine death metal gig must probably be something very close to it.

~*~


End file.
